Why Mummy Drinks: The Sunday Times Number One Bestselling Author

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Stuck in an airport on Christmas Eve, you wouldn’t be able to help yourself organising the other passengers into some sort of Festive Vision, to cheer everyone up and make the best of things. The description of the ride on the top of the bus looking into the windows of the passing house was quite beautiful. Is it any wonder that Ellen likes a glass (or two) of wine, sometimes with her best friend but sometimes alone.

I liked when Ellen stood up to the Head teacher and Michael (Louisa’s Father) Shouted at her, made me smile.Okay it was never ever going to improve my mind, but what it did do was make me laugh and make me laugh out loud. Your children are meant to come home for Christmas, arriving in a snowstorm just heavy enough to be festive without actually impacting anyone’s travel plans, tumbling through the door laughing, with rosy cheeks and arms full of presents, adorably clad in bobble hats and cosy scarves and tasteful woollen duffle coats, while I beam with maternal pride and welcome my chickadees back to the nest. I'm not going to say what either of those stands for but let's just say that one of the Fs features VERY frequently in Mummy's vocabulary! Sims captures perfectly the sheer relentless monotony and drudgery that can easily form a large part of a parent’s day and pitches this perfectly to the social media generation. A quick WhatsApp to my friends’ group chat revealed that Peter’s travelling companions Lucas and Toby, the errant offspring of, respectively, my oldest friend Hannah and one of my dearest friends Sam, had also attempted this ploy.

There were hundreds of people to be fed and diplomatic negotiations to tiptoe through, and Louisa’s glass to be kept topped up, because she is marginally more bearable drunk than sober, and Jessica’s OCD to be managed and Geoffrey to be kept away from Natalia lest he either made a pass at her or racist comments or both. Hell, I thought, why not go wild and crazy and get the whole bloody lot pre-prepared from Marksies, to save me spending Christmas Eve peeling pounds of spuds while cursing Sir Walter Bloody Raleigh for having the bright idea to introduce the bastarding things to England, and thinking jolly well done to Good Queen Bess for having the fucker’s head chopped off , before flinging my potato peeler in the sink and declaring I could not do this anymore, and bolting outside to collapse on the bench at the back door and suck down the sweet sweet kiss of a Marlboro Gold while blessing the name of Sir Walter Raleigh for also bringing me fags, and perhaps he was in fact just very misunderstood. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been convinced every year that this year – this year it would be perfect. The sort we could never go to when the kids were little because they’d break things or steal things?For parents of young children, or who remember having young children, this will likely entertain and cause nods of familiarity in equal measure.